


Christmas Miracle

by jaimistoryteller



Series: Christmas 2014 [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Christmas, Depression, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, post-Reichenbach AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimistoryteller/pseuds/jaimistoryteller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall, there is only one thing John wants for Christmas</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Miracle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PawToPaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PawToPaw/gifts).



> Prompt: Johnlock Christmas fluff  
> For: PawToPaw
> 
> Not sure if this is fluffy or not but it was my attempt at fluff.

_ John's POV _

He missed the madman he called his flatmate. All he had requested last year for Christmas was his one miracle. All he was asking for Christmas this year is that same miracle. Of course he is not foolish enough to believe it will happen, but he cannot help but ask for it. While everyone else is busy preparing for the upcoming holiday, he was just trying to survive. In order to avoid all the merry makers he had stocked up on all of the supplies that he had needed and had no plans to leave the flat unless he was called to the clinic for an emergency. 

Early Christmas morning he is awoken to the sound of a door opening and closing within the flat. Since he no longer has a flatmate and Mrs. Hudson is gone for the week to her sister’s that’s wrong. There should be no one else within the flat. 

Silently sliding out of the bed, he grabs his gun, making sure it is loaded before he quietly goes padding down the stairs, carefully checking each and every room and corner of the flat as he goes. When the only room he has left to check is his Sherlock’s, he softly pushes the door open, eyes sweeping the room before they come to rest on the bed and the shape beneath the blankets. 

No one should be on Sherlock’s bed. No one should even be in his flat. Who the hell would break in to sleep in a dead man’s bed?

Carefully making his way across the room to the edge of the bed with his gun still leveled at the shape on the bed, his eyes widen as shock as he takes in the familiar features in the predawn light. 

It’s not possible.

Shaking his head in shock, he backs out of the room as quietly as he can, closing the door behind him. Not sure what else to do, he fetches his phone, dialing up a number that he has not used or answered in thirteen months. 

“Hello John,” the posh voice answers the phone. 

“Is he real?” he demands, not bothering with politeness. 

“If you mean my brother, he is very real.” The politician informs him, “He may require medical assistance. He refused to allow the doctors to check him before he returned to Baker Street. If there is anything you require for his care text Anthea.”

“I don’t have her number,” he replies to that comment.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor Watson, do make sure he does not hurt himself further,” the politician remarks, not acknowledging his statement before hanging up. 

Almost as soon as the line goes dead, a text beeps in.

-Hello John.- A

-Merry Christmas- he replies, letting her know he got the number. 

Judging by what Mycroft had said his flatmate was probably not going to wake for a while because he needed to recover. He would check on him from time to time to make sure he was alright but would allow him to sleep. After all, who knows when the last time his madman had gotten any rest at all.

Feeling far better than he had in thirteen months, he sets to cleaning the flat seriously for the first time in weeks. Every time his depression had worsened he had allowed the flat to fall behind. Now that his madman was here, that his miracle seems to have occurred, he sets to making sure all is right. Of course part of his reasoning is simple, best to work off strong emotions before the dark-haired genius awakens. 

Right now he is feeling elated, overjoyed, thrilled. His one miracle had occurred against all odds. Yet a part of him is absolutely furious. The entire time he has been mourning him, he was not dead. How could he do something like that? Make him feels as if he was worthless and had failed so thoroughly? They were questions he would want answers to. But for now, for right now he was just going to be happy he was back. 

After cleaning the flat and getting everything back to being dustless, he decides to go digging in the closet for the Christmas stuff. Since he got his miracle he is going to set up the tree and decorations. He is also planning to make dinner, and while it will not be the traditional dinner because he does not have the stuff for it, he is sure he can find something to make that his picky flatmate would eat. Once he has the decorations he turns on a CD of violin music he had recorded Sherlock playing in the months before the Fall before deciding to work on dinner or setting up the tree and hanging the decorations. 

Dinner first, something slow cooking so that no matter when he wakes up it will be ready. With that in mind he sets to checking to see what there is to eat. Eventually selecting some chicken breasts to bake with three cheeses to melt over top of it and penne pasta to set it on when he is done. After getting the prep-work done, he shoves the chicken in the oven to start slowly cooking. 

Several hours pass as he hums along with the music. He is working on hanging the last of the lights when he grabs the stool in order to reach the high shelves. Sometimes it is inconvenient to be on the short side for a man. Standing on his toes, he is reaching towards the top of the shelf when a slender, long fingered hand reaches past him and hooks it with ease. 

Spinning around he nearly fall off of the stool as he stares at the tall man standing in front of him. 

According to the way the robe hung off of his shoulders, his flatmate had not been eating properly for a while. Though he has a feeling it is more because of the situation than because his flatmate wanted to skip meals. His skin is nearly see through, at least the parts he can see are, though there is dark shadowing under his eyes as if he hasn’t been sleeping right. 

As soon as the shock of his really being there wears off, he launches himself at the taller man. Wrapping his arms around the lanky detective and hugging him as tightly as he dares, mindful of the warning Mycroft had given him. After a moment, he feels his flatmate slowly wrap his arms around him. For a long moment the two of them stand there holding each other. Eventually he notices that his flatmate seems to be unsure of what to do and finally lets go.

Stepping back, he watches as his flatmate smiles at him a bit unsure of himself, hesitant as if he is not sure of his welcome. 

“God am I happy to see you,” he mutters, studying the tall man with his doctors focus, noticing that he seems to be favoring one leg, and that he is not standing as straight as normal. 

“John,” the tall man mumbles. 

“Sit down and take off your house robe Sherlock, you look like you need fixing up.” he directs the taller man as he turns and goes up to his room to grab his kit. 

When he gets downstairs, he is happy to see that his flatmate listened to him. The taller man is seated on the edge of the sofa with nothing but his sleeping bottoms and slippers on. His back is a good couple of inches away from sofa. 

Carefully sitting on the edge of the sofa beside him, he carefully begins to check him over, starting at his head and working his way down. He finds that his flatmate has a myriad of bruises, welts, and cuts across his back and sides. Three of his back ribs, four of his front ribs, and ulna are all broken. Otherwise he seems to be mostly alright. In order to wrap his ribs, he first cleans all of the open injuries so they do not get infected. Silently, he then makes sure the ribs are lined up before wrapping them, before carefully doing the same with his arm, using a slightly harder wrap to make sure it sets right. 

“Later you can tell me how you ended up in this condition, but for now, for now you’re just going to sit here and drink some tea while I keep staring at you.” he tells the dark-haired genius, trying for joking and sure it is failing.

Surprisingly, Sherlock nods, settling against the sofa back and watching him as he sets to making the tea. Once the two cups are ready he carefully carries them out to the living room, setting Sherlock’s down on the coffee table in front of the sofa, he debates for a moment as to where to sit. The debated is end when Sherlock speaks up.

“Would you mind sitting on the sofa with me?” the taller man asks softly. 

He nods, happy to have had the choice made for him, before he settles onto the other end of the sofa, angling himself so he can watch the tall man. 

For a little bit neither speaks, eventually though curiosity seems to get the better of his flatmate and he glances between him and the radio before asking, “When did you make the CD?”

Smiling, he answers, “Whenever I was gone while you were playing I would leave the laptop recording. When I got home, I would take out everything that wasn’t music and save only the music. After the Fall,” he pauses swallowing hard, “well there were nights I could not sleep, the flat was too quiet so I burned the recordings to a CD that I could put on loop in order to sleep.” Shrugging he states, “It helped with when I was depressed too.”

“I’m sorry,” his flatmate whispers staring at him, there seems to be a sheen to his eyes when he looks away. “I hadn’t realized…” his voice trails off.

Unsure of how to comfort his friend, he scoots a little closer on the sofa, and gently pats his leg. “It will be alright, you’ll tell me all about it, I’ll get pissed that you took so many risks, you’ll sulk, we’ll get through it. Sure it will hurt for a bit, but at least your home.” Frowning he considers it for a moment before asking, “You are staying home right?”

The detective nods once, “Yes, I am staying home. Baker Street is where I belong.”

Smiling, he answers, “Good, now you look like you need a couple of good meals, so let me go check the chicken.” As he stands he grabs their empty mugs stating, “I’ll make another tea too.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs leaning back against the sofa and closing his eyes.

He just stands there for a moment, wondering why his confident friend seems so unconfident and decides that he will be there for him. There are probably issues that he will need to work through and that’s alright. Sherlock had been there during his recovery, he could be there for his.

In the kitchen, he sets the water to boil for noodles before setting the kettle to boil as well. Still humming to the music, he feels it when his flatmates focus comes to rest on him. When he turns around with the teas in his hands, he is mildly surprised to see that Sherlock has turned to face him. 

“Here you go,” he murmurs as he sets it before him before settling back onto the sofa near him. 

The two of them are quiet while he waits for the water to boil, but it is not an uncomfortable quiet but a thoughtful one. He knows there are things that they need to discuss but he does not want to do that right now. Right now is just there being together again like old times, though there seems to be something else in the air too.

When he hears the water start to boil, he gets up, heading to the kitchen to put the butter and noodles in to cook. While it is cooking, he sets up the strainer and gets out the dishes. This is one of the few times since his flatmate ‘died’ that they have been used. 

“John?” his dark-haired friend asks from directly behind him, startling him because he had not heard him move.

“Yeah Sherlock?” he asks as he pulls the chicken out of the oven and sets it on the counter.

“Why did you mourn me?” the tall man inquires softy, an unknown note in his voice. 

Draining the noodles, he doesn’t immediately answer. However once he is done with that, he turns to face the taller man replying, “Because you are my best friend Sherlock, my world revolves around you.” Pausing, he blushes but decides to press on, “I love you, you git, probably have from the first, though I didn’t realize it until you were gone. So I will take whatever I can get, even if it is only being really good friends and flatmates.”

As he was speaking the dark-haired man’s eyes widen as if he is shocked. Surely he had realized? After all, the very first night together he had warned him away. 

“You do?” his question is so soft that he is nearly not heard.

“Of course I do, do you know anyone else who would put up with heads in the fridge for just a friend?” he replies with a smile, “Come on, you, let’s eat.”

Biting his lip, his dark-haired flatmate nods, reaching for a plate and frowning.

“Here, you go sit down and I will bring you some,” he suggests, taking the plate from him and setting to making a small helping for him. After all, if he has not been eating often, his stomach probably cannot handle a lot of food. The entire time he is making the plate, the taller man hovers as if he is unsure. “Come on you, you can eat what you can handle and the rest can be shoved in the fridge for later.”

Again his flatmate nods before turning and heading over to the sofa again with him following close behind. Once the dark-haired man sits down, he hands him his plate and silverware before fetching a plate for himself and taking up the spot on the end of the sofa. 

The two of them eat in silence, though they seem to scoot closer to each other as they do so. He is mildly surprised when the detective finishes his entire plate at roughly the same time he does. After sitting their plates on the coffee table, he glances over at the taller man questioningly while considering what to say. 

For a bit the two just look at each other. Eventually his flatmate scoots just a little closer to him, their knees pressing against each other as they stare at each other.

“John?” the taller man murmurs, “Can I kiss you?”

Swallowing hard, he nods once, watching as the taller man leans towards him biting his lip before slowly pressing his lips against his. Blinking owlishly, he closes his eyes and leans forward into the kiss, bracing himself with a hand against the back of the sofa while his other sort of hovers between them. 

He had imagined this happening plenty of times in the time since Sherlock had jumped but never thought it was going to happen. He’d still be wondering if it was happening if not for the fact he could feel his flatmates dry lips. 

“Sherlock,” he groans as they break apart. All he really wants to do right now is sink his fingers in the taller man’s runaway curls and go back to kissing until they were both panting. “Why?”

Leaning forward so their foreheads are pressed together the dark-haired detective answers, “I realized while I was gone that I wanted everything, not just what we had but all of it.” he can just about feel the blush on the younger man’s cheeks, “I realized that I was jealous every time you went out with a woman and I wanted to be the one you went out with. The one you went to bed with.” Again the taller man pauses before continuing, “But you’re not gay and there wasn’t any hope of that happening.”

Tilting his head just a bit he kisses the taller man softly instead of answering, the hand that had been hovering is now curled about his shoulder. When they break away for a breath he remarks, “I’m not gay, but I never said I wasn’t bi.” Grinning, he states, “Besides, even if I wasn’t attracted to men occasionally you have always been the exception to the rule. You even noticed the first night, but warned me off.” 

Gently brushing his hand over the younger man’s jaw as he sits back, he asks, “Where would you like this to go Sherlock?”

“Everywhere,” he promptly answers. 

Smiling, he nods, “Alright. So I got both miracles when I was really only hoping for one, you really are amazing.” 

“Both miracles?” the taller man questions softly.

Nodding, he responds, “Your alive and this.”

His flatmate smiles at him, scooting so that they are now pressed together from knee to thigh before leaning back over to press their foreheads over. “I was foolish,” the taller man mutters, “There is always something that I miss.”

“We both were, I never thought you would actually give me a shot which is why I dated women, but after you left I stopped,” he shrugs, but makes sure not to break the contact between them. 

“My John,” the taller man murmurs as he tilts his head to kiss him again, this time running his tongue along the seam of his lips and the moment he gasps using his tongue to carefully explore his mouth. 

Twisting around, he presses his body flush against the lanky detective, his hands start carefully skimming over top of his chest, lightly touching ever inch of skin he can. Lightly he runs his fingers over his flatmate’s chest and shoulders, enjoying the ripple of muscle beneath his touch. 

“Jawn,” Sherlock moans arching towards his touch.

“Shhhhh, relax love,” he murmurs, “Just enjoy the feelings.”

Slowly, the dark-haired man does so, relaxing into the sofa while he straddles his hips. Through the thin material of their sleeping bottoms both of them are hard as a rock as far as he can feel. He grates slowly against him, causing the friction that both of them need. Lingeringly he proceeds to kissing from his lips to his jaw before working his way across to his ear to nibble on it, causing the taller man to gasp. 

“More please, more,” the taller man whimpers.

Standing, he offers the dark-haired man his hand, smiling at him gently, “My room?”

Nodding slowly, the taller man takes his hand and they slowly go up to his bedroom, taking his love with him. In his room, he flips on the light, and walks slowly to the bed. Pulling the blankets, he carefully pulls the taller man down beside him. Once he has the detective stretched out and relaxing, he goes back to softly touching him, working on arousing him.

“Jawn,” his lover whispers again. 

“I love you Sherlock,” he tells the taller man as he leans over and returns to kissing him. Starting at his lips, kissing him deeply until his partner is moaning with nearly every breath. From there he returns to kissing his way across his jaw, instead of pausing to worry his ear, he continues downwards, swirling his tongue across his pulse. “You’re beautiful,” he tells the dark-haired man as he scrapes his teeth across the pulse point, biting softly, but not hard enough to leave a mark. “More?” 

“Yes,” the taller man responds, “please, can I touch you?”

“Of course,” he replies, “You can do whatever you want.”

With a burst of energy that he is not expecting out of the taller man, he is pushed backwards onto his back before his love is exploring him. Smiling he just enjoys the feeling. Sherlock starts with sprinkling kisses all over his face. Pausing every little bit to kiss him full on the lips, deep, long kisses that make him just as breathless as his love had been just a little bit before. Both are rocking their hips, though Sherlock more than him, in search of the friction. 

Eventually he moves from the dark-haired man kissing his face to his working on traveling down his jaw and throat, pausing at the pulse to lick and suckle, mimicking his actions from just a little bit ago before he moves on. Slowly the taller man explores his shoulders and chest, paying close attention to the scars that mar his skin, in particular the starburst that is where he got shot. 

He is not sure how long his partner continues to kiss him and explore him, but he knows that he is on the edge of bliss. After a while the tall man gets to his sleeping bottoms, for a moment he hesitant fingers working at the edge.

Smiling at him, he lifts his hips, allowing the taller man full access, “Whatever you want,” he murmurs. 

His love nods, biting his lip as he hooks his fingers in the waist band and tugging it down. However he flinches and hisses when he tries to shift his weight to his arms as it puts pressure on the broken bone. 

“Careful love,” he tells the taller man, “we can always do more later, There is plenty of time.”

“But I don’t want to wait, we have been waiting for years,” the dark-haired man grumbles. 

He chuckles softly, reaching for him and pulling the taller man up, “Kiss me again,” he softly orders. 

Nodding, he does so, kissing him long and slowly. While they are in the middle of kissing, he rolls them so he is on top again. When they break apart, he kisses his way down his chest, careful of the broken bones and injuries before getting to his loves pants. “Can I?” he inquires fingering the top of them.

His dark-haired lover nods, watching him with hooded eyes as he does so and biting his lower lip. Slowly he pulls the sleep pants and pants off of his lover, kissing ever inch of skin as he reveals it. Once he is bared to his gaze and touch, he skims his hands softly up the taller man’s legs as he works his way back up his body. When he reaches his loves cock, he runs his tongue from root to tip before softly taking him in his mouth and just about swallowing him down, the flat of his tongue tracing the vein that runs its length.

“Jawn!” his lover gasps arching his hips up. 

The next several minutes are spent with him carefully working over his lover, enjoying listening to him beg and gasp until he is coming with a shout down his throat. He swallows, though some dribbles down his lip that he uses the back of hand to wipe it off. 

Smiling, he kisses his way up the taller man’s stomach and chest before pulling him close and reaching over to click off the night.

“What about you?” his lover asks sleepily. 

“Later, I’d like you to be a bit more awake, and right now all I want is to cuddle with you.” he responds, kissing the top of his head softly. 

Sleepily, Sherlock nods before snuggling close and drifting off to sleep. 

It might take a while before everything feels quite right again, but he was sure they could make it work. 


End file.
